


And Thus Trumps Redbeard Mycroft

by ScherbenByOpium



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock -fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Mycroft-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 18:29:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2239005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScherbenByOpium/pseuds/ScherbenByOpium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>However many times Sherlock freak-fine-but-not-a-psychopath Holmes snaps that he is in fact a high-functioning sociopath now shut up and let him think, Mycroft doesn’t buy it. </p><p>Nevertheless, sentimental as he’s getting in his middle age, he only ever calls Sherlock out on the ‘high-functioning’ part.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Thus Trumps Redbeard Mycroft

 

Mycroft used to call Sherlock stupid, on a daily basis, for the very simple reason that Sherlock _was_. Stupid. On a daily basis. It was only when they came out of their seclusion (happy ignorance) that Mycroft realized that Sherlock, that all of Sherlock’s mindless, pointless, _stupid_ little idiosyncrasies were in fact _normal_.

 

Like getting attached to things, which was always unwise, especially if they were things that Mycroft could get to. Toys could be broken, tampered with, hidden; Irish Setters only had an average life expectancy of eleven years anyway. If Mycroft regrets being the brother he was, it’s only for the exhaustion of keeping the country from the brink of collapse when he’s not slept for days on end and to be frank feels much further gone than the British economy (which was saying something), or for whatever Sherlock slipped into his Christmas punch (which tends to go without saying).

 

He doesn’t know why he invested so much effort in improving Sherlock. It might have been because he had gotten used to seven peaceful years of solitude until along popped Sherlock to wail when Mycroft didn’t pay him enough attention and wail when he did, and the novelty had never quite worn off. Indeed, he never stopped Sherlock in his (significantly) younger years from tailing him like a curious puppy, all bright eyes and messy curls and clumsy affection, even when Mycroft kicked a _little_ too hard, never stopped feeding him when nobody else could (or had the clues to where his favourite book or teddy or science experiment was), never stopped sacrificing his own precious time to work out (with ease) where Sherlock had concealed whatever it was so dear to him, and relocate it.

 

It wasn’t that he didn’t feel a jolt of warmth that wasn’t purely the joy of creation when Sherlock came to be able to solve almost all of Mycroft’s puzzles, when, sometimes, Mycroft found himself struggling to solve his, and when Mycroft didn’t really need to lay him puzzles anymore, because Redbeard was dead and whatever remained of Sherlock’s sentiment, with it. He supposes the feeling is what they call brotherly love.

 

Because he’s done Sherlock an ultimate kindness, at his own cost. He’s committed to having a little brother, all the while ensuring that Sherlock would have nothing but a nuisance and an – ah – _arch-enemy_. And Sherlock may resent him all he can under that funny little scarf of his, but now they can sit together and play children’s games and reminisce to the good old times and incidentally, aren’t normal people so very infuriatingly stupid?

 

Mycroft calls that improvement.

 

(Though Sherlock would just throw something heavy with a lot of angles at his head and call him a flabby, meddling git.)

 

\--

 

He doesn’t make it to Sherlock’s rare and exclusive top three.

 

If John Watson didn’t happen to be one of the lucky three, Mycroft would have made Afghanistan look like Barbie’s tea party to him for being the reason the top three even existed. For having the presumption to undo Mycroft’s many years of hard work and leave Sherlock vulnerable once more, with no damage done to himself except risking his life three times a week and having to pay half the rent for 221B Baker Street.

 

It has absolutely nothing to do with the new umbrella Mycroft is now obliged to charge someone else with buying. Mycroft did not feel jealousy, or bitterness, or furious regret, or any of those petty, useless sentiments he took so much care to wean Sherlock out of.

 

And even if he did, a shredded umbrella and crumbs of porcelain hanging on his cuffs and beneath his heels certainly weren’t a result of that.

 

\--

 

_“Do you ever wonder if there’s something wrong with us?”_

 

He isn’t sure what to say to that, now that they’re in the same boat and boats meant oh so many dangers. Getting lost at sea, falling overboard, not weathering through the storms that had never mattered before, and not knowing how to survive them now that things do matter. Watching Sherlock be saved by someone else.

 

The most he can do for his little brother is be consistent.


End file.
